There Is A Way

The adjutant to the Devil is always a fool. He will be dressed up the dandy with a hat to match, but the Devil never pays for the finery, he leased it from God and all the fool ever really gets, are ‘hand me downs’.

Fools vote. This much should be obvious by now. I do not presume to surrender a list, but their numbers are legion and growing. What was intended as a sacred trust to the thoughtful initiate has steadily devolved into a poll for ‘best dressed’. Pants first; then shirt, the time-honored ritual has protected legs from briar, maintained our genitalia as mystery and protected from element what skin does not favor.

Without engaging in another civil war to prove our point, we should endeavor to convince the fool to put his clothes on, if for no other reason to elude the embarrassment of the initiate who must focus fully on his uncertain future.

So what has the fool done, you may ask?

Plenty:

He has discarded God and therefore left the Devil to play.

He has enshrined opinion over wisdom. Oprah is a mime, lip-synched to a sound track skillfully dubbed from popular culture. Nothing of accountability ever comes out and hereby, substance, is the resultant tragedy.

He has voted for an untested Icon, and yes, the lips move as well on this one too. This Icon, the adjutant indeed, works on the careless assumption that when things are bad, changing everything will make it better.

Perhaps in an effort to appear responsible, the fool has made great effort to wag the finger, not only at human error, but to all humanity. It seems our existence is an affront to mommy earth. We must pay. Less gasoline, less babies, less wealth, less privacy, less security, etc. are the prescriptive punishments for absolution to some primal yet foggy remnant of guilt.

Before I underscore doom with a longer list (and it is very long) let me stop here to propose a remedy. We must fashion a trend not with a billion dollar campaign, and not with a media circus. It has to start with a whisper at one of those big Washington insider cocktail parties. It goes something like this:

“Hey Nancy, I heard Chris Matthews is looking for a plastic surgeon who has pioneered a procedure for turning white people into blacks, I mean African American. Nancy perceives a set up, “Oh stop it!” “No, seriously, Michael Jackson gave him a grant when he was in med school with the proviso that he would work on this. Seems he succeeded also on developing a hormone cocktail that triggers the immune system to fight the physical effects of aging.”

A conspirator calls your name holding his cell phone over his head, “Hey Dave, it’s that Doctor again.” “Nancy would you excuse me for a moment,” and you disappear into the crowd, cell phone in one ear and finger in the other.

“Hey Harry, Chris just called my answering machine, said he wouldn’t be able to pencil me in for Hardball this week, said he has a ‘procedure’ that reschedule him at some clinic. You saw him last week, is he O.K.?” Harry stares gloomily back and says innocently, “I thought he was O.K.”
Your fellow conspirator spills some Merlot on your sleeve, “Damn, I’m sorry mate . . . ‘fraid I’ve met my limit . . . get you a club soda there?” You feign some appropriate disgust, “It’s a cotton microweave. I’ll just dab it with some soap and water in the bathroom.”

Obama is posing at teleprompter angles in front of the bathroom mirror with one of his secret service agents. “Oh, Mr. President!” You appear surprised and pleased like an orgasm before church, “Just a little wine on the sleeve.” Chris Matthews gave me this shirt, said his wife got it for him but he didn’t think it would go with his color . . . didn’t really know what he meant . . . but hey . . .”

Obama exits with security in tow. You and your conspirator leave the party and hail a cab; job done.

In the mean time Chris is on vacation for a week in the Bahamas and naturally he cannot be reached. This is doubly advantageous. He cannot verify and therefore accentuates the mystery by also being out of touch.

Chris Matthews comes back from the Bahamas, quite tanned and in good health. He is scheduled to interview Nancy on hardball the next day, who for some reason was very eager for an interview about healthcare. She looks at him a little too carefully throughout the interview and asks him about his color? He thinks she means his tan, “looking better,” he quips and Nancy retreats to the green room for pampering in ‘makeup’. “Can you make me look forty,” she teases the gay artist. “Oh honey, you are so forty! Get out of here!” “Seriously” she lowers her voice, “FORTY.”

Rahm Emmanuel hands Nancy his Blackberry in the morning Cabinet meeting with the president with a raised eyebrow. “Nancy”, he says “you know this is most irregular, It’s some doctor down in the Bahamas. (You), said something about Chris Matthews getting his dream, and him your number.” Naturally, Nancy takes the call.

The doctor (you) is affectionately known as Michael’s angel, and you speak reverently about him. You explain that your future success and those of similar genius of kindly being allowed a clause in health which pertains to ‘rejuvinative procedures for the racially challenged’.

The following weak headlines just before a vote reaches the senate floor, says: Cosmetic Surgery “An American Right.”

The bill fails . . .

. . . By only one vote . . .

One fool less and 100 million to go.

Milton